Interruptions
by E.M Travers
Summary: "The Vicomte de Chagny was hanging from his ceiling." Why is he being so pleasant? Maybe it's the blood going to his head... ErikxRaoul. Pre-Slash.


AN: Just a random drabble one-shot that popped into my head. Yes. I ship RaoulxErik…and I ship it hard. X3 …I more or less had the imagery of the Gerard Butler!Erik and the Patrick Wilson!Raoul…but I guess it's because they're both adorable. Anyways, enjoy!

Erik was hard at work, seated at his organ and playing diligently as he worked on a new composition. The dark haired man was in deep concentration, his brow furrowed slightly and his green-gold eyes focused so intently on the sheet music inside the leather portfolio it looked likely to catch fire as he continued to scratch notes and sometimes lyrics on the paper. In the middle of flipping to the next page of music staffs, a cluster of bells hanging from his ceiling above the lake clanged together. Erik grumbled under his breath, as these bells usually meant that an unexpected visitor had tripped one of his many traps. Hopefully it had been one of his deadlier-ones, he didn't feel like having to Punjab one of the little ballet rats or foolish stage hands who had wandered down to his shadowy domain.

He chose to ignore the bells and he turned his attention back to his gleaming organ, his fingers flying along the keys easily. Reflexively.

**CLANG! CLANG!**

_Plink._

Erik's ring finger slipped on the ivory keys as the bells began to clang together, making an unpleasant sour note in the middle of his perfectly harmonious score. He glared up at the bells, wishing they'd just fall from their resting place on the ceiling so he wouldn't have to deal with their godforsaken interruptions. He leaned in to scratch out a few notes on the parchment with his worn nub of a quill pen and returned to playing.

…

**CLANG! CLANG! BANG! CLANG! DING!**

_Crash!_

Erik snarled under his breath. His hands had angrily slammed down onto the worn keys of his beloved organ when those bells started ringing again. Whoever it was, they either really wanted to die at his frustrated lasso, or they really didn't want to die in his trap. With another huff of his breath, he stood, snatching his trusty Punjab lasso from where it was wrapped loosely around one of the pipes of his organ, and his cloak from the back of his chair, wrapping it around him as he loped towards the boat and towards this utter disturbance.

He had spent a long hour searching every one of his traps for whoever had set off the bells, to no avail. This was preposterous, Erik thought. He was the Opera Ghost, the terror of the Paris Opera House, people had difficulty finding _him_, _he_ never had difficulty tracking his own victims down…

_A yell and a flash of grey and gold. _

"Oh, what fresh hell is this!" Erik snapped, jumping out of the way as the intruder came shooting back down, snagged by his ankle in one of the Punjab traps and hanging from the ceiling.

The Vicomte de Chagny was hanging from his ceiling.

"Oh! Monsieur Phantom!" The idiot said as he came plunging down the third time. Erik was…to say the least…confused. He actually sounded remotely pleased to see him. No death threats to 'let him down or else.' The fop even went as far as calling him _Monsieur_ Phantom. His clothes were disheveled, his long blonde hair out of its usual navy-colored ribbon as it clung to his face, his cloak and his shirt hanging messily out of his pants.

"You dunce. Why are you even down here, skulking about? At four in the morning, no less?" Erik said, as the blonde male bounced around in the air for a few seconds before the momentum brought him back down, delivering his face scarily close to the concrete ground.

"I am not a dunce. I am a Vicomte. And why are you living down here? And still skulking about? At four in the morning?" The boy asked, and Erik could practically see his blonde eyebrows rise as he flew back up to the ceiling via the Punjab. Yet he was still confused, was it possible that the Vicomte was drunk? Or was he just was feeling all the blood rush to his hot-air-filled head?

"I was in the middle of composing when my alarms signaled that some fool had gone and gotten himself tangled up in one of my traps. That fool would be you, Vicomte." Erik said, raising a hand nonchalantly to adjust the mask that he'd haphazardly strapped to his face.

"And who was it that put this trap here in the first place? Hmm?" The idiot questioned as he came back down to eye-level with Erik…however upside-down he was at the moment.

"That would be me, and if you'd gotten trapped the right way, maybe the lasso might've killed you properly and I wouldn't have to deal with you right now…Will you stop that? It's bound to add to the migraine I already possess." Erik retorted as he timed the toss of his lasso, catching the Vicomte around the torso and with a sharp tug, steadied him so he was just hanging from the ceiling and no longer bouncing, staring back at Erik with those big blue eyes.

"Thank you, but do you mind cutting me down so I can allow my blood to flow properly. I do believe I'm feeling a tad lightheaded." The boy said, his usual pale face positively flushed from the odd flow of blood his body wasn't used to.

"….I'm oh so tempted to just leave you hanging like this, it's likely that you'll die from the awkward blood flow to your brain and frankly, I don't feel like getting my hands dirty today." Erik said with a malevolent glare at the younger male.

"…But then who'll be your new patron?" The fop said, his expression resembling a young child when he's just found out he's getting what he wants.

"Damn you, Vicomte!" Erik shouted, locking eyes with his patron.

The boy just smiled, swinging back and forth slightly in his leisure.

The one eyebrow visible with the Phantom's half mask rose as he took in the full visual of the helpless, disheveled Vicomte. He had to admit…he'd always found the Vicomte as a handsome man. The golden hair and the blue eyes…as well as the spattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose that were easily visible at the moment. Handsome….alluring…even beautiful, he'd admit. But he wasn't in love. With the Vicomte…oh god forbid. It wasn't love. Simply…an amusement with the young boy. 

One quick flick of Erik's knife and the Vicomte landed in a heap of blonde hair and cloak on the ground.

When Raoul sat up to thank Erik, his head throbbing from the sudden rush of blood, he was slightly disappointed to see that he'd already disappeared down the dark corridor.

Raoul simply smiled, clambering to his feet and heading back the way he came.

_Of course, he'd be back soon enough._


End file.
